Facsimiles of Shadow: Reflections of the Self
by Late to the Party
Summary: A single small alteration can change everything. In this AU, we explore two very simple what ifs: what if Ellesime wasn't an only child, and what if species described as 'cunning' were actually smart?
1. I

The first time he saw her face he wondered if he was gazing into a mirror. That day in Nashkel, he saw his face carved into the rock, the chisel fell from Prism's hand and the sculptor gaped. "Ellesime!" Prism cried, before breathing his last, two emeralds in his fist.

It was a strange morning but even stranger was when he met her. At first, she raised her hand, her fingers poised as claws, but he had simply stared and asked simply, "Mam?"

Her arm fell limp, and with a hiss she snarled, "I am not her–" but her rage broke as the tears slid down his cheeks, as his legs gave way beneath him. Her face in its slender beauty slowly untwisted, and then, she, too, sank to her knees. The warmth of her long finger as it caught his jawline, tracing the path of his tears, the long, studied gaze. In a room filled with colossal jars housing floating bodies, reflections of a person, the pair shared sorrow and grief. For the woman, rage trickled into a flood; for the youth, answers dangled before him and with it, a maelstrom of loss.

In the chaos that followed, they escaped the labyrinth of passages, passed more chambers with jars and stumbled across a shaft that led to the surface. At the mouth of the pipe, he froze, but she simply shook her head once, firmly, and took the lead. From the shadows another watched, then followed, a familiar face.


	2. II

Behind them lay the ruins of a battle between shadowed figures and his host, her creator's followers. Pressed into service, goblins worked alongside grey dwarves, their bodies strewn as the pair picked their way through the bloody mess. As they climbed into the light, a wave of fresh air struck them, and blinking, they ascended.

Up on the surface, the city bustled with life, a market. With a haughtiness he could not match, she strode as though born to walking the city, though 'rags' was a generous description of her cladding. Yet unlike her, his robes were princely, of elegant silk, half way between crimson and scarlet, depending on the light. His hair was crowned with a circlet of white gold, and his boots were fine leather.

Heedless of the muck, the noise, the stares, she turned into a stall; without hesitation, he withdrew one of the rings from his fingers. The hawker eyed it for a moment, continued chewing, and then spat the wad of leaves into a bucket. The tented stall held what amounted to a tablecloth, red, and coat hangers hung overhead. She chose a blue cloak, the wool soft, but somehow the fabric seemed bashful, as if aware it did not deserve to grace those smooth, slender shoulders. The ring was worth more than the cloak, but the coin the merchant returned was far less than he ought. It was, however, more than enough to purchase stockings, socks and boots for her. The cloak she chose came with an interior sash, a sash she fastened neatly. Her eyes ran across a row of tunics and dismissed them, and taking him by the hand, she walked with purpose away from the market.

He followed without question, her warmth somehow more real than the blinding overhead sun.


	3. III

He did not distract her with useless questions, nor make any sound at all. The sight of the city was so different to those he was used to, the sun so much harsher and the dress different. Quite how it was different he couldn't say, only that it was. The faces were bronzed here, even the fairest holding a slight tan. The wind wasn't cold; there was no snow, and even the salt of the sea tasted… strange. But it was the salt of the sea carried on the breeze, the stench of fish, and as they crossed the great bridge dividing the two halves of the city, he paused and stared into the river. His slowing step caused her to pause, and she turned, and gently laid her other hand upon his forearm, her eyes considering as they drank in everything about him.

He already understood that this was neither the time nor the place to ask questions, and so, after a moment, he simply smiled and gestured she lead the way. Through the crowds they walked, her hand still on his, her eyes deterring any would-be pickpockets, and after hours of walking, they came upon an inn. Without hesitation, she pushed open the door and strode beneath the darkened awnings, weaving through the tables until she came to the bar. There, she purchased the use of a room, her voice never gracing the establishment as she gestured instead with her free hand.

The innkeeper, a stout man with what might have been ogre descent, gruffly passed her a key as she handed over the appropriate coinage, indicating a tray of food and wine, turned and marched up the stairs. Her hand never left her companion's.

A few moments later, that familiar face entered.


	4. IV

The hole in the sandy-hued wall overlooked the open street. It might have been plaster, soft stone, or mud, but his view was interrupted as she closed the shutters and motioned him over to the bed. Momentary alarm surged, but as he haltingly perched, he found himself watching her. Locking and barring the door, she drew herself up, checked to ensure they weren't being overheard, and just as haltingly, lowered herself beside him.

He felt his hands bunch his robes, even as her own smoothed her lap. Finally, he looked up and offered a single name, her name, he thought. "Ellesime?"

Her gaze blackened, and hatred twisted her mouth.

Jerking back, he held up his hands and explained about Prism, the sculpture, of how the human mistook him for that name. She calmed, and took his hands in her own, her eyes never leaving his. Tersely, she described herself as a 'reflection' of 'her'. He knew better than to voice that name. That stare didn't blink as she pointedly waited for him to share.

His gaze found the floorboards and after a moment, he simply said, "Aliana – mam."

A quick upwards glance revealed nothing from the she-elf. His eyes flickered away, his whole frame tensing. "I… I never knew her. She died just as I was born." There was nothing more to say, he supposed.

Several moments passed without reaction from either one of them. Eventually, he allowed, "When I saw you, I thought…"

He didn't need to explain. She already understood. A sharp rap shook the door. Wordlessly, she rose, smoothing her cloak, and accepted the tray, held the serving girl's eyes until she curtsied, and stepped away. The door fell soundlessly shut.

Two bowls of what looked like an unappetising stew and smelt even worse, a sort of brownish broth with floating reds and greens, and what looked like a baleful eye sticking out of a fish head met him. The she-elf didn't pause, except perhaps to test it for poison, but after an experimental sniff, a flick of her tongue, purse of her lips, she indicated it was safe.

He fell upon it, the heat searing through him, almost scalding his taste buds. The fire from the broth burnt even hotter, the little red and green vegetables like nothing he'd ever tasted before. Automatically, his hand reached for the clay bottle; she removed it from his grasp and delicately poured the red fluid into two pinkish clay cups, her hand covering his until she ensured it was safe.

It was half gone before he fully registered the wine was cut with water. Sloshing it around his mouth helped still the wicked fire, but the she-elf barely seemed to notice. After a half hour, she finally set aside the tray and he mustered the courage to ask the question that had been dogging him.

"What were you doing there?"


	5. V

She hadn't answered at first, not out of anger, but puzzlement, as if he should know. Outside, they heard the creak of the floorboards as various patrons passed by, and a little later, a gentle rap at the door, the girl returned to fetch the tray and ask if they wished for anything else. She recommended the yoghurt with a small smile, but the she-elf simply waved her away.

His face sank. Cold yoghurt right then sounded amazing.

"Alian." She turned and he felt himself squirm with a start. It was a statement as much as anything else; he felt himself frown. There were things he did not, could not remember. Then he nodded, simply accepting it.

It would make sense for her to give herself a name at this point, but when she did not, he simply ventured that he remembered waking up 'there', on a bed with silken sheets near a set of trees, watched over by three forest women. He would walk and browse the library, but there were locked doors.

Her whole being darkened at this, but he barely noticed, so lost in the memory of it all was he. Relaying what he saw in vivid detail, the shelves of dusty old tomes, the mauve flagstones, the vividly coloured and elegant bedroom, he wondered aloud if he, too, was merely a reflection? He rubbed his temple. There was a battle, he recounted, a great battle, a towering figure in black armour, a sword taller than he that stood as high as the figure's shoulder, and then there was a… collapse? Every muscle in his head bunched, and shooting, searing pain rushed through him. There was a blur, a shadow, clawed hands that snatched and pulled him from the rubble, a voice he did not know singing to him, low, mocking.

When he came to, he was somewhere else, alone. He could recall bright, pale blue eyes piercing through him from behind a mask of crinkled flesh, but nothing more. The bed beneath him was soft, and he had such a thirst that he quaffed the jug left out on the bedside table. At first, he thought it was water, but there was a sickly-sweet taste masking bitter herbs, and after he drank it, his wounds began to close. The wounds he did not recall receiving, but his body bore scars from what he presumed was battle. The elixir repaired the scar tissue, and he was able to flex his left hand, something which had somehow been damaged, or maybe it was always damaged? But now, he could use it. Yet his memory was cloudy. He remembered lying on the bed, in the reverie, passing out, and coming to again. Despite the elixir, he felt weak, and he awoke to the sound of the tree-women singing.

Shortly after, he found the door unlocked, and the she-elf.

More softly than he dared breathe, he wondered, "Who am I?"

Her hand found his, and firmly, she guided him to the reverie; she, however, took the watch.

By the time he came to, it was dark. His body needed only four hours to trance, but his mind demanded much more. Dark dreams clouded his vision, and when he described these, as the she-elf stood watching from the window, a silent spectre, he noted her whole being tighten. The dreams were of death.


	6. VI

She must retain some memory of the original self she was reflected from, Alian decided. It was the only possible answer. She seemed to know things even though she didn't voice them.

The sun had risen only a third of its usual path, but she had already tranced. The way she sat, cross-legged, back straight, palms open, it seemed as though she was more aware rather than less. A breakfast tray had come with fresh-baked flatbreads, soured wine, and a slice of sharp cheese. Once again, he all but devoured his share.

Then he slumped, unable to explain why he was so ravenous. Out of nowhere, she asked if he had these dreams often, to which he frowned. Her eyes remained closed. She must have detected his shrug, for he felt her tense, perhaps in disapproval. He could not gauge her age, but somehow, she felt older than him. It also bothered him he had no means of designation for her, a small but growing irritant in the back of his awareness. So he offered one: Elisana. If unimpressed was an expression, she wore it so well he almost stepped backwards. As he opened his mouth to explain, she silenced him with an upright forefinger. Somehow, he'd fallen into the pattern of obedience; somehow, she had simply taken the lead.

There was a slight shuffle, then a rap at the door; 'Elisana' relaxed, and after another knock, the serving girl pushed the door ajar. Every inch of the girl screamed uncertainty, her body wound so tight as to bolt, but upon viewing the trancing-not-actually-trancing she-elf, she offered a hesitant smile to Alian, and upon his nod, she all but tiptoed to collect the tray. The elf caught her and leaned forwards; the girl leaned forwards too. "Yoghurt." Was all he said, and the girl nodded emphatically, and backstepped in an exaggerated gait and as quietly as she could, closed the door.

Elisana simply fetched him a look. He shrugged.

Alian began to wonder how long it would be until they left their little room. His eyes had explored it more times than he cared to count, noting the screen, the washboard and shallow tub, a thing neither of them had used, and a bedside table. The double bed could have housed three of their slender elven frames but only one with a bit of room to spare of the portly innkeep below. What was Elisana waiting for?

The answer was not forthcoming, but when he did suggest leaving the room for a 'spot of fresh air', she seemed to shake her head without shaking it, slid off the bed and over to him in a single, fluid movement, and firmly took his hand. While at first it had been reassuring, he now felt something akin to a toddler. From her expression, perhaps he was.

Below, sitting at one of the tables, a face from his past awaited and waved warmly to him. He gasped half the name before Elisana silenced him with her tightening hand.


End file.
